Hot Lava Morning

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Do you remember back to the days when you would leap from the pieces of furniture in your house to avoid the floor, which was made completely out of ‘hot lava’? It seems that everyone knows what you’re talking about when you say ‘hot lava,’ don’t they? We never played ‘cold lava,’ either; it always had to be hot. Of course, if it were ‘cold lava’ we'd simply call it rock jumping…or parkour.

I woke this morning to the strangest feeling—like back in the days when I’d played that game as a kid. It was hastened even further when my friend’s kids began to play ‘lava monster’ throughout their house. As their screams and laughter filled the air I was taken back.

I guess every boy (and probably girl) has played this game at one time; sometimes, I miss the days when you could play like this and not worry about breaking the furniture.

Images from toothpastefordinner.com & stories.mountainworkshops.org/

The Crush

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I remember back when I was in the seventh grade—a pubescent boy in the beginning stages of acne and that gawky period in life we all have to endure for a season—or two. This was the year I found myself on the third floor in Ms. Flickinger’s homeroom.

Ms. Flickinger was my favorite teacher that seventh grade year; there was just something about her quirky mannerisms and enthusiasm that drew me in, and made me love school. Of course it probably also had something to do with the stories she told about her cannibalistic goldfish, or maybe it was due to the fact that she caught me after I’d completely plagiarized my report from the encyclopedia; instead of nailing me, she let me know with subtle hints that she knew and wanted me to know that she knew.

You know?

I never plagiarized another paper after being in her class.

There’s something about having a teacher like Ms. Flickinger that makes the year go so much easier, a magical something that helps you to look forward to getting up and going to school each day. Okay, I have to admit here that I had a little bit of a crush on her – you know, just to be honest.

After my eighth grade year, Ms. Flickinger moved to another school and I went to high school.

But I’ve never forgotten her.

Fast forward to now.

I’ve been a full-fledged teacher for just a breath over a decade now. This past week I sat in my classroom reading over my students’ journal entries. As I reached the end of one particular entry I came across a P.S.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told that goldfish story…

November 26, 2009

Pin It My mind is a tumult of thought.

I thought about Mom today; as I did, I found it strange that someone you care about in this life could suddenly be whisked away. Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of their voice might still be in existence…yet they are no longer with us.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to write about Mom, about how I’ve felt, about the good and the bad moments over the previous months since that fateful day this past summer. A whole lifetime has passed since those heartrending moments, and yet, it feels like it was only as long ago as a whisper shared amongst friends.

Time keeps going on whether or not we’d like it to.

The house was a melee of smells as family members were preparing the food for our Thanksgiving feast; however, I just felt that I needed to get out for a little while—to be alone—to think.

I decided to take out the trash.

I moved outside into the bitter crisp of November as the Thanksgiving wind buffeted me from all sides. In the distance, the pale light of the sun shone through the horizon’s misty clouds. I wanted that sun to bury its warmth deep into the empty and dark places of my soul. I stood, breathing in with lungs capable of still doing so, feeling the oxygen filling me.

I thought of the meal we were about to eat; the meal that she would not be taking a part in. It just seemed so inequitable, so unfair.

I retreated to my basement office to escape everyone and everything. I decided to organize files—as well as the accumulated slices of decades’ worth of living—to take my mind from the pummel of reflection. I settled down and found boxes rising about me in the minefield of disorganization…

Letters, photographs, various knickknacks and paddywhacks; they surrounded me like a vestibule of yesterday.

As I sifted though these fragments of my own life’s history, I felt myself remembering this particular student, that specific moment of childhood—a fragmented memory which had long-since been forgotten and lain dusty and dormant.

It wasn’t long before my dad came into the room.

Against the wall was a collection of artwork Dad had given to me on that last visit home, nestled amongst them were the sticheries, those which Arlene had done while she was still alive. Dad stared silently at each of these pieces in turn and then asked:

“Did you know that she wrote to you on the back of this one?”

I looked up from the papers I’d been sorting through, and shook my head. I arose from my place and moved slowly to where my dad was standing. The stichery was large, proclaiming “Welcome to the Zimmerman’s” proudly from its frame.

I turned the frame with trembling fingers and looked down at the brown paper backing. There, scrawled in curls I immediately recognized, I saw a message written to me. Mom had written it, she’d written sometime before—before the final days and moments that had taken her inescapably away.

I read over the note she’d written, my mouth dropping open. I was devoid of speech for several moments—I simply gazed at the writing before me.

And, just for a moment, she was there. Whispering those things I so much needed to hear, a message spoken from beyond the blistering confines of this thorny life.

When my dad departed from the room, I remained a few moments longer, gazing at the letter written to me.

I smiled.

Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of voices might still be in existence…and testaments of love will not be forgotten.

Repost - The Gift

Pin It Originally posted on January 25, 2009

I am a firm believer that we can be the hands and feet of God; moving and serving each other as he would if he were here walking among us. In the words of Alabama: "...there are angels among us." There have been, in my own life, times when I have been at the receiving hands of these angels in disguise.

I stumbled across my journals tonight. I was looking for something else when I found the stack of books I’d not looked at in years. One of these drew my attention. It was a blue, hardcover journal I’d written a flurry of years ago; in a time when I was making that transition from boyhood to manhood. In the front of this journal I wrote something a few years after my original entries:

“…In all the things in life we do, everything contains lessons…if only we look hard enough to see them.”

For the next few posts, I would like to share a few of the ‘gems’ hidden away in these pages…nestled amongst the frivolity and stupidity of a boy who has changed in so many ways from this person he once was, and in other ways, changed because of these experiences.

Rewind: 12 or so years ago.

When I graduated high school I moved to Spokane, Washington.

I worked at Ernst Home Center.

I also worked at a movie theater.

I used to sell popcorn and tear tickets.

Yet, during this time I never realized just how much the people at the movie theater cared about me.

On November 14th I was just finishing my shift at the theater; Vince Brown, one of the managers, said that he needed to see me after work.

I waited at the box office until Vince was done counting deposits.

He saw me waiting and asked me to follow him outside. I walked with him to his car in the lightly-falling snow, the white flakes spotting my black vest like flakes of ash from a bonfire.

Vince said that he wanted to show me something.

When we got to his car, he unlocked the back door and reached inside, saying, “Now, this is just a little something from me, and someone else who wishes to remain anonymous.”

He pulled out a large J.C. Penny bag.

I knew what was in that bag, even before he handed it to me.

“Vince, I can’t take that.” I protested, holding up both hands.

Vince shook his head, thrust the bag into my hands and said, “People care about you, and you need to let them do things for you every once and awhile.”

He looked at me for another second. As I made to protest again he added, “You’ve been on the ‘giving’ end for so long, you need to know what it’s like being on the ‘getting’ end.”

With that he turned and walked away, leaving me in the falling snow, clutching the plastic bag with trembling fingers.

I watched as Vince returned to the theater without looking back, and I realized that I was crying. I stood there for nearly another minute…snowflakes settling in my hair and on my shoulders.

I had been coming to work that winter without a coat. I had lost my last one nearly a year before, and hadn’t put the money aside to buy another one yet. I figured that I could get by for the time being with a sweatshirt…which I did.

I remember Vince, Diane Cahalan, & Cori Wetzel all asking me at one time or another where my coat was. I always told them that I didn’t need one.

They hadn’t believed me.

As I opened the bag I saw the black and blue St. John’s Bay winter coat.

I felt a little ashamed that I had this jacket. It was undoubtedly expensive, and I didn’t feel like I deserved it.

I trudged to my car, wiping the snow away from the windshield and looked up at the darkened heavens. The snow continued to fall, and everything about me was silent. It was as if the entire world was asleep and I was the only one awake.

I opened my car door and put the bag inside, standing out in the chilly air, my breath appearing before me as puffs of steam. I reached back into my car and took the bag out. I removed the coat and slipped it over my shoulders.

It felt warm. Warm from the kindness of others

Repost - The San Rafael

Pin It Originally Posted on January 21, 2009

The desert holds a special place in my heart. I cannot explain fully when or why this love came about, but it might have something to do with my dear friend and coworker, Ron Firmage, who introduced me to Expedition Red Rock and the beauty which southern Utah truly holds.

For this, Ron, I cannot thank you enough.

Repost - Stars

Pin It As a teacher there are students who slip in and out of a classroom, as well as in and out of a life. I’d wondered about this particular boy over the years, how was he doing? What was he up to? What kind of an individual had he become? I won't lie, I was moved when he showed up in my classroom on this winter evening...mysteriously finding his way into a locked school building.

These are the moments which matter - these are those small times when being a teacher is worth every single moment where we'd struggled.

Originally posted on Wednesday, January 23, 2008

I had a friend who needed to cancel our evening plans, which led me to stay at work a little bit later than usual tonight. As I entered grades, visited with a few other teachers, organized the room, and began to get ready for the next day’s teaching, my classroom door swung open. Standing there was a student I hadn’t seen for quite a long time…I’ll call this boy, ‘Joey.’

As Joey strode into the room I found myself surprised to see him, especially so late in the evening. How had he gotten into the school? Why was he here? Joey walked straight up to me and threw out his arms, embracing me in a bear-type hug. It was then that he began to talk. I couldn’t believe just how big this boy had become since he’d been a chubby little fourth grader in my classroom some six years before. He’d become a fine young man, now in his second year of high school.

Joey talked, expressing several times just how much he loved being in my class as a 4^th grader. He reminisced about the voices I’d used for read-aloud, the assignments he’d had fun with, and just how much the room had stayed the same…though it was just a little bit smaller than he remembered. His face grew somber as he turned and looked me in the eyes. He began to thank me for the countless hours I’d spent on him; hours of working on assignments as well as tutoring him with reading.

He took a deep breath and then said, “I wanted to tell you something else…I wanted to let you know that I’m a good kid. I’m not perfect and I’ve done some stupid things in my life, but when I started to drive to the school tonight to visit you, I thought about how proud I was of the fact that I am a good kid, and I wanted you to know that. I’m not trying to toot my own horn or anything like that, and I hope you don’t think I’m being prideful, but I’m not doing drugs, I’ve got a lot of good friends, and I’m nice to people. I’m proud of myself and I wanted to let you know that, too, because, it was you who really made me the person I am today. I can remember all of the long hours you worked with me and helped me to love school. The things you taught me about being a good person. Well, I just wanted to thank you for that.”

It wasn’t long before Joey’s cell phone rang…it was his mom. He needed to be home for dinner soon. I walked him out of the school; before he got into his car he gave me another hug, once-again expressing his gratitude. As I watched the taillights of Joey’s rover vanish into the darkness, I climbed into my own car and made the trip home over the icy streets of town, my head a flood of reflection. I had thought about Joey—on numerous occasions. He’s the type of student that teachers often think about…wondering: Was all the time I spent on him wasted?

I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me as I drove home; thankfulness for the time I’d chosen to spend on this particular child who had struggled with education for so many years. It was this same boy, ­now sixteen, who helped me to realize that the time we invest in others, though it may tax us to our very limits, can make the biggest difference. This time we spend is NEVER wasted.

In the words of Loren Eisley:

One day a man was walking along the beach when he noticed a boy picking something up and gently throwing it into the ocean.

Approaching the boy, he asked, “What are you doing?”

The youth replied, “Throwing starfish back into the ocean. The surf is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them back, they’ll die.”

“Son,” the man said, “Don’t you realize there are miles and miles of beach, and hundreds of starfish? You can’t make a difference!”

After listening politely, the boy bent down, picked up another starfish, and threw it back into the surf. Then, smiling at the man, he said, “I made a difference for that one.”

Moments that matter

Pin It There are moments.

Moments that occur in our lives which can define us.

It is through these little instances that our lives become intertwined with others, where we mix the colors of our life sketches together for short or extended periods with those which may or may not be family members. It is in these small, perhaps seemingly insignificant moments that we mold ourselves—or even those around us—into the type of individuals we will all one day become.

These are the moments which matter.

I switched on my computer this afternoon and logged into my Facebook account—I wanted to check the activity on the site when I noticed that an old student and boy I’d mentored several years ago had tagged me in a photo. I clicked on the link and was a bit surprised when I was greeted with this image:


I scanned the photo and started to read over the descriptions; as I moved the mouse over the picture, I noticed that names would pop up—squares which had been tagged by people, as friends or acquaintances of theirs who’d fit the description of said box.

When I scrolled over one of the boxes a name popped up I recognized.


The name was mine.

I sat, staring at the screen for several moments in bewildered silence.

I was speechless.

I hadn’t seen the young man who’d done the tagging of this particular image for quite some time; but I thought of many of the experiences we’d had in the mentoring program over the years—all of the good times—as well as the struggles and hardships over the five years I’d worked with him as a young boy growing into adolescence.

I have not been his mentor for a few years now. I have not been his teacher for even more of those years—yet there was something I did which made a difference, something he still remembers.

I am still speechless.

I am reminded of what I said a while ago when someone asked me what my future goals were in regards to my life; to this I responded: I plan to one day take the ultimate photograph, to have a student come back after graduating high school because I made a difference in his or her life, to see each kid in my class feel a sense of belonging, and to get up each morning with a smile on my face and project that into the lives of those around me.

These are the moments…

The call

Pin It I drove.

The open road was beckoning to me.

I heeded its call.

To fields of sunset-drenched wheat…

Warm summer winds blowing away my frustrations…

A Cannon Mark II camera…

Biting red ants climbing on my legs in the long grass on the roadside.

…euphoria.

Echoes

Pin It It is night.

Everyone is asleep, save me.

I gaze around my parents’ house, the familiar dimmed lamps burn through the darkness.

I sit; I look on.

As I do, I remember words penned many years ago by author Mary Downing-Hahn in her book, “Time for Andrew:”

The fire hissed and popped and sent a shower of sparks flying up the chimney. I leaned closer to my aunt. “Do you ever wonder about the people who used to live in this house?”

“What do you mean, Drew?”

“Well, so many of their belongings are here—things they touched, things they made. It just seems strange…” While I spoke I looked around the room, finding faded photographs on the mantel, a pair of china dolls sharing a child-sized rocking chair, shelves of old books. My voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say.

Aunt Blythe ran one finger over the row of stitches she’d just finished. “Things last longer than people,” she said softly.

That was true, but that wasn’t what I meant. “The people, our ancestors—do you think they’re still here somehow?”

“Are we talking about ghosts?”

“Do you believe in them?”

Unlike some adults, Aunt Blythe took my question seriously. Leaning her head back, she stared into the fire and thought about her answer. “In an old house, the past is all around you,” she said slowly. “You hear sounds sometimes, even smell things. Superstitious people might call it the work of ghosts, but I think of them as echoes, little traces of the folks who once called this house home…”

It is quiet.

I listen to the echoes.

Making Memories

Pin It When we don’t have plans we can either wait for someone to make the magic happen, or we can put the magic into motion ourselves. This Friday night I had no prospects, so I called a few friends of mine and put something into movement.

A group of old and new friends met at “The Trolley” down in Art City last night. We laughed for hours. We reminisced of yesterday. We spoke of the future. We had a wonderful time.

We all need good friends.

I have a memory

Pin It Isn’t it odd just how often our memories can be triggered by a song, smell, or a taste of something from that time we’d left so many years before?

That’s so often how memories are for me.

I was walking through the halls of my elementary school a few years ago, and from somewhere I caught the scent of something I’d not smelled since my own elementary days. It was the smell of bamboo air freshener.

I was instantly transported back to Freeman Elementary School, in the first grade hallway walking to Mrs. Woodbury’s classroom. A moment later I’d returned to the present. However, the experience was so real, so vivid, and fantastic that for a moment I thought that I’d stepped through a conduit of time and space.

This also happens time to time when I hear a song, or eat something associated with a distant memory. It is this which brings me to my present post.

A dear friend and I were chatting not too long ago, and I mentioned these Hostess donuts my parents used to buy when I was a kid. I’m sure you’ve seen of them…they’re those nasty raspberry powdered kind.

As a kid I loved them.

My friend thought it would be fitting to bring me a box of these sugary delights. I opened the carton and a whiff of powdered sugar filled my senses as I reached in and lifted one from the container.

As I sank my teeth into this powdered delicacy, I was transported to the Columbia River…


The car was loaded with towels, an ice chest with lunch, and our swim gear.

Walking to the cold water over the scorching sand.


Catching minnows in a plastic cup.

Swimming to the floating dock.


Looking into the river depths and seeing shadowed reflections.

Floating on inner tubes and the smell of pine trees.


The asphalt parking lot strewn with pine needles.

Walking the logs and feeling brave, even though I never made it past the first one.

Campfires and the roasting marshmallows and hot dogs.

Riding in the canoe and smelling the sweet odor of the outdoors.


Warm summer breezes, and the sound of the pines rustling songs without words.


A moment later I was back in the present time, in my classroom. My students were at lab and would need to be picked up in a few minutes. I stood, as I did I looked into the box where now only two donuts gazed up at me.


Thanks, good friend, and thanks Hostess for a trip back to innocence.

Journal – The Gift

Pin It I stumbled across my journals tonight. I was looking for something else when I found the stack of books I’d not looked at in years. One of these drew my attention. It was a blue, hardcover journal I’d written a flurry of years ago; in a time when I was making that transition from boyhood to manhood. In the front of this journal I wrote something a few years after my original entries:

“…In all the things in life we do, everything contains lessons…if only we look hard enough to see them.”

For the next few posts, I would like to share a few of the ‘gems’ hidden away in these pages…nestled amongst the frivolity and stupidity of a boy who has changed in so many ways from this person he once was, and in other ways, changed because of these experiences.

Rewind: 12 or so years ago.

When I graduated high school I moved to Spokane, Washington.

I worked at Ernst Home Center.

I also worked at a movie theater.

I used to sell popcorn and tear tickets.

Yet, during this time I never realized just how much the people at the movie theater cared about me.

On November 14th I was just finishing my shift at the theater; Vince Brown, one of the managers, said that he needed to see me after work.

I waited at the box office until Vince was done counting deposits.

He saw me waiting and asked me to follow him outside. I walked with him to his car in the lightly-falling snow, the white flakes spotting my black vest like flakes of ash from a bonfire.

Vince said that he wanted to show me something.

When we got to his car, he unlocked the back door and reached inside, saying, “Now, this is just a little something from me, and someone else who wishes to remain anonymous.”

He pulled out a large J.C. Penny bag.

I knew what was in that bag, even before he handed it to me.

“Vince, I can’t take that.” I protested, holding up both hands.

Vince shook his head, thrust the bag into my hands and said, “People care about you, Jason. You need to let them do things for you every once and awhile.”

He looked at me for another second. As I made to protest again he added, “You’ve been on the ‘giving’ end for so long, you need to know what it’s like being on the ‘getting’ end.”

With that he turned and walked away, leaving me in the falling snow, clutching the plastic bag with trembling fingers.

I watched as Vince returned to the theater without looking back, and I realized that I was crying. I stood there for nearly another minute…snowflakes settling in my hair and on my shoulders.

I had been coming to work that winter without a coat. I had lost my last one nearly a year before, and hadn’t put the money aside to buy another one yet. I figured that I could get by for the time being with a sweatshirt…which I did.

I remember Vince, Diane Cahalan, & Cori Wetzel all asking me at one time or another where my coat was. I always told them that I didn’t need one.

They hadn’t believed me.

As I opened the bag I saw the black and blue St. John’s Bay winter coat.

I felt a little ashamed that I had this jacket. It was undoubtedly expensive, and I didn’t feel like I deserved it.

I trudged to my car, wiping the snow away from the windshield and looked up at the darkened heavens. The snow continued to fall, and everything about me was silent. It was as if the entire world was asleep and I was the only one awake.

I opened my car door and put the bag inside, standing out in the chilly air, my breath appearing before me as puffs of steam. I reached back into my car and took the bag out. I removed the coat and slipped it over my shoulders.

It felt warm. Warm from the kindness of others

The San Rafael

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Why cookie dough doesn't taste the same

Pin It I remember when I was a little kid.

Whenever my mom would bake chocolate-chip cookies I’d always be anxious to get at that bowl of dough. I would dream of a day when I’d be able to make an entire batch of cookie dough and then eat it all.

I wouldn’t even share it.

However, when I was a kid and Mom would make cookies, she’d always use this ancient mixer with two beaters to get the dough ready. When it was sufficiently mixed, she’d push that little button and the beaters would shoot off of the mixer like a pop gun. She’d then use the scraper to get nearly all of the dough off—but not quite.

Mom would then hand these beaters out to us kids. And when mom gave you a beater to lick, it was like licking the dew of the gates of heaven.

It always amazed me just how much dough was really on each of those beaters. Especially when a little trained tongue was covering every square centimeter in the desperate attempt to get as much off of them as humanly possible.

There was really something magical about cookie dough enjoyed this way.

When I got older and had moved out, I decided that I would make a triple batch of cookie dough and my roommate and I would eat it all while watching one of the Back to the Future movies….It wasn’t as wonderful as I thought it would be. Visions of pure unadulterated bliss faded away, and a sensation of nausea took its place instead.

It was not what I had expected.

Even after this sickening experience, over the years I’ve made hundreds of batches of dough…the most popular is that of the notorious “Chunk-A-Poo” cookie which is...how do I describe it?

Wonder?
Bliss?
A party in your mouth?

No matter how you say it…the stuff is good. I decided to make a batch of this dough and as I was cleaning off the one solitary beater, I looked at all those little chunks of dough clinging to it.


As I did, a thought occurred to me. The reason that cookie dough does not taste the same to me is that when I was a kid, it was a limited commodity. There was scarcity. Hence, I enjoyed what I had a lot more. Being able to make it when I’m an adult, and can eat as much as I want makes it lose some of its magic.

As this thought come to mind I decided I’d only eat what was on the beater.


You know what? It still tastes like those pearly gates